Santa Claus & Mistletoe & Presents to Pretty Girls
by Scribere Est Agere
Summary: See Title. And, Ho Ho Ho.


**Title:** Santa Claus & Ho Ho Ho & Mistletoe & Presents to Pretty Girls  
**Author: **Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing:** Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers:** Everything  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** See Title

//

_Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus._

_~Francis Pharcellus Church_

//

It was still snowing. December snow and Christmas was coming. Eames studied the red and green and white lights and half-crazed shoppers and hummed along to the canned carols as she wandered down the street back to the car.

_I love this time of year,_ she thought.

"I hate this time of year."

That was Goren, of course, walking beside her, hands shoved in his pockets, notebook tucked under his arm, chin tucked into his scarf.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," she said.

"Everyone's in such a _rush_."

He side-stepped a harried woman carrying three large shopping bags.

"That's true."

"It's so commercial."

"Doesn't have to be."

"Huh. Just _try_ to avoid it."

"Don't be such a Scrooge."

"I'm not."

She laughed.

"I'm _not_."

"Fine."

They passed by an especially brightly lit window.

"Hey." He nudged her. "Look. It's Santa."

And it was. They could see him and his display through the store window, laughing merrily, jiggling a young boy on his lap who didn't look quite as merry.

"Yep. Sure is." She kept walking. Bobby grabbed her elbow, pulled her back.

"C'mon," he said, tugging her towards him, towards the door.

"What?" She looked at him. "We still have this report to file. Are you nuts?"

"Maybe," he shrugged and wondered what the hell he was doing, but kept doing it anyway. The interior of the store was hot and bright and very loud. The music was loud, the crying children even louder. Eames squinted, unbuttoned her coat, but allowed Bobby to pull her over to Santa's Village, complete with elf assistants and a candy cane fence.

"Santa," Bobby said again, as if in explanation. He waved his hand. "I like Santa. I'm not a Scrooge."

Eames made a noise that sounded like a snort.

"Shh. He might hear you."

"Who? That actor in the red suit and beard?"

"Eames, I'm shocked! That might be the real Santa."

"The...real Santa."

"Of course. Don't let him hear you or you'll get coal in your stocking."

"Coal in my stocking. This from a man who hates the holiday season?"

"Just because I don't like the commercialism, the imposed social strictures…The _idea_ of Santa is quite lovely."

"Fine." She kept walking.

"What? Don't tell me you're…" he gasped, "…a _non-believer_."

She slowed, raised an eyebrow at him.

"I believe."

He raised his own eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "Okay then. Prove it."

"Prove it?" She laughed. "What? You want me to sit on his lap or something?"

He leaned down. "Yes."

She laughed. "You want me to sit on Santa's lap."

"Yes."

She looked over. The lineup was short, the display would close in 10 minutes. She could feel Bobby's amused gaze on her. Shit. He wasn't going to back down. Shit. Well, neither was she.

She got in line.

"At least you don't stand out," he said.

"_You_ can just go to—"

"Tsk tsk. Such un-Christmasy language."

"Next!"

She hesitated for only the briefest moment before marching resolutely along the red carpet to where Santa waited. She reached out and shook his hand firmly, then perched herself on the edge of his knee. Bobby grinned. He couldn't help it. He _grinned_. Santa laughed and whispered in her ear and she laughed and whispered back.

"Do you want a photo?" the elf asked.

"No!" Eames yelled as Bobby nodded _oh yes._

_Flash_.

"What are you going to do with that?" she asked as they navigated the icy sidewalks once more.

"Blackmail, Eames. The perfect piece of blackmail."

She could only smile. He glanced down at her.

"So?"

"So what?"

"So…have you been a good girl? What did you ask Santa for this year?

"Oh, peace on earth and goodwill and happiness. And love. You know. All that stuff."

He tucked his hand into the crook of her arm, pulled him to her a little.

"Well, I hope you get everything you want, Eames."

She leaned her head, for the briefest moment, on his arm as they walked.

"Oh, I will. Santa told me so."

//

_What did the ghost say to Santa Claus?_

_I'll have a boo Christmas without you._

//

He was in a funny mood. Funny strange, not funny ha ha. He barely said a word all morning and when he did it was to snap at or reply to her questions with one-word answers or, better yet, indecipherable grunts.

"You're gonna end up on the naughty list, Goren," said Ross gleefully.

"Coal in your stocking this year, Bobby?" asked Rodgers

"Who hung the tinsel?" said Meyers, glancing up at the silvery twinkle above their desks.

"Probably Eames," said Bobby, not looking up.

"Wasn't me," said Eames, clearing her desk. "Maybe little elves did it."

"Didn't I just say that?" he said.

Eames rolled her eyes. "Funny, ha ha."

"I wasn't trying to be funny."

"Don't I know it. Lunchtime. Let's go."

"Fine."

But even the waitress noticed.

"Turn that frown upside down," she said brightly as she slapped his sandwich down in front of him. "Only four more sleeps till Christmas, you know."

"Oh boy, if looks could kill," Eames said, watching Bobby's face.

"Everyone would be dead right now," he said, looking away. "Well, except you."

She smiled.

"Thank you for small favours."

"You done all your…shopping?" he asked as he poked at his bread.

"Pretty much." She almost asked him the same, but the question died on her lips and, of course, he noticed.

"Yeah, me too," he said, and actually smiled, sort of. "Let's go."

"Bobby."

"Let's _go_. Traffic is gonna suck…more than usual even."

They drove in monumental silence.

"What's the matter with you today?" she finally asked.

He shrugged.

"Any ideas? Insight?"

He shrugged again. "Christmas."

She nodded.

"Lots of people find this time of year…difficult."

"Difficult."

"Yeah, you know, family and, what did you say? _Social strictures_ and—"

"Right." He nodded, jaw muscles working. "Green light," he said.

And on it went. Jefferson turned on some Christmas carols at his desk and Bobby almost threw his stapler at him. Ross wished everyone a Happy Holiday and Bobby mumbled _Bah Humbug_, except everyone heard him.

"Well…I'm going home," she said at five, grabbing her coat and bag, pushing in her chair. He ran a hand through his hair, looked at her going.

"Have a good night."

"Bobby…" What was she going to say? She didn't have a clue and she stood there staring at him, wanting more than anything to…take him home with her, go home with _him_, sit in front of a Christmas tree and sip eggnog or brandy or _water_ for pity's sake, anything. Anything. She held her breath.

"Eames?"

She smiled. "You have a good night, too."

When he called her at 11:24 that night she wasn't surprised and she wasn't tired. She had just finished wrapping her last present (Pokeman cards for her nephew), and had swallowed the last of her tea and wondered why he hadn't _called_ already.

"Hello, Bobby," she said. He was surprised.

"You get call display for Christmas?"

"Oh, I knew it would be you."

"I'm getting too predictable in my old age."

"You're not."

"What? Old? Or, predictable?"

"You okay?" she said instead.

"Yeah. Positively _merry_. I was just thinking about you."

"Yeah?" Why was her face red? Shit.

"Yeah. Wanna hear something interesting?"

"Uh…sure."

"According to the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, while both male and female reindeer grow antlers in the summer each year male reindeer drop their antlers at the beginning of winter, usually late November to mid December. _Female_ reindeer retain their antlers till after they give birth in the spring."

"Wow."

"Neat, huh?"

"Sure."

"I knew you'd think so, because listen, therefore, according to every historical rendition depicting Santa's reindeer, every single one of them, from Rudolf to Blitzen ... had to be a female."

She laughed.

"Well. Well, that explains a lot, huh?"

"Sure does."

She smiled. She grinned.

"Go to sleep, Bobby."

"Maybe. We'll see."

"Thanks for the…seminar."

"My pleasure."

"I'm sure."

"Four more sleeps until Christmas, Eames."

"Yeah."

"Not that I'm counting or anything."

//

_Ancient Celtic priests collected mistletoe from their holy oak tree around the New Year and offered some as a sacrifice to the gods. Some was hung up during a ceremony and people stood beneath it and kissed, showing an end to their old grievances with each other._

//

The bar was packed, the alcohol was flowing, the lips were flapping.

Christmas parties. God, how he hated Christmas parties. He hadn't even planned on attending this one but she as going and he knew she was going, and well.

And, well.

Bah. Humbug.

She was wearing a red sweater. Her cheeks were very flushed. She was laughing a lot.

She was beautiful, more than usual even, if that was possible, which it was, apparently.

Christmas parties.

Bah.

_Work_ Christmas parties.

Humbug.

And Ross and Rodgers huddled together in the corner booth deep in conversation, their fingers mere _millimetres_ from touching on the table top. God. What a sight. A sight he didn't need to see, now or ever, really.

And Jefferson had Wheeler pressed up against the bar and Wheeler was going to knee him hard any second. It was almost enough to make attending this _shindig_ worthwhile. Almost.

And Eames. Eames. Funny how it and everything else always began and ended with her, always.

And Jenkins. Was he _hitting_ on her? Fuck. He was. And was she _responding_ to him? Fuck. She was. Bobby drained his drink and watched them moodily. Well, of course she was. Why not? When was the last time a man made her feel attractive? When was the last time _he_ paid any attention to her?

Bah.

And _fucking_ Humbug.

When Jenkins leaned over, way over, for the third time and murmured something to her and she laughed, long and loud, Bobby knew he'd had enough, more than enough. His stomach hurt and everything he'd consumed in the past two hours was in imminent danger of making a reappearance on the floor by his feet. He stood suddenly and made his way rather unsteadily to the bathroom. No one noticed him leave. Well, almost no one.

He splashed cold water on his heated face, let it drip from his nose, his hairline for a moment as he tried to get his bearings. Get a taxi, go home, go to bed. Get a taxi, go home, go to bed _alone_. Simple, direct, painless. Mostly.

Okay, then. Here we go.

Except she was there, standing in the small alcove by the exit, peering through the door into the night and swirling snow.

"What are you doing?" he asked. She startled.

"Looking for _you_," she said. "I thought you left without saying good bye."

"Oh." He shuffled his feet. "Well, I was going. I mean, I am going. Now."

"Oh." She looked up at him. "Aren't you having fun?"

He laughed because otherwise he might have cried.

They stood staring at one another as the noise from the party swelled behind them.

"Oh, look," she said. She tilted her head back slightly. He studied the long, pale slope of her throat. He wanted to trace its delicate curve with one finger, feel the soft pulse beneath the skin. He finally looked up. "Mistletoe."

Ah. So, it was. They both stared at it, hanging there, above their heads. Through his sweet haze of whiskey he remembered something that she might find interesting.

"Did you know mistletoe is a hemiparasite?"

"Pardon?"

"Mistletoe. It's a partial parasite. It grows on the trunk or branches of a tree and gets its nutrients by sending out roots that penetrate into the tree—"

"You're so romantic."

He startled, glanced down at her. Her cheeks were very flushed. She wasn't looking at him.

"I am?"

She shook her head. "Yes."

He steeled himself.

"Did you _also_ know that—"

"Bobby?"

"Yes?"

"Be quiet for just a minute."

She turned to face him then and stood on her tiptoes, pressed her mouth gently against his. He lost all sense of time and space and the room surrounding him. He was only aware of her, of her lips and his lips, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her waist. Then she broke the kiss and moved away and he felt dizzier than ever.

"_That's_ what mistletoe is about, okay? For future reference?"

"Oh. Okay." He paused. "Lucky me."

"Luck?" she snorted, and she really _had_ been drinking because then she said: "Luck nothing. I waited all night for the right person to stand under it."

Oh. So, _that_ meant—

"Okay," she said. "You can keep talking now."

Words, though, seemed to have abandoned him.

Something about mistletoe. Roots. Parasites.

Fuck it.

This Christmas thing could maybe actually be okay after all.

//

_Through the years we all will be together_

_If the Fates allow_

_Hang a shining star upon the highest bough._

_And have yourself a merry little Christmas now._

_~Hugh Martin, Ralph Blane_

//

Christmas Eve stakeout. Perfect. He sighed. He watched the clock, sipped his coffee, watched her sip her own coffee from the corner of his eye. A full thermos sat on the seat between them. He sighed again. She huddled into herself, warding off new winter cold as best she could. They didn't speak. Silent night. Their cold breath filled the car. At 12:01 a.m. he handed her a small, flat wrapped package. She stared at it.

"What's this?"

Even in the dark he could tell she was surprised and embarrassed but he couldn't back out now.

"A…uh…present."

"Oh."

She took it then, put her coffee down and smoothed the paper flat with her hands. Finally she unwrapped it, studied it under the light from the streetlamp. It was a photo. Not the Santa photo, she realized stupidly. It was, to be precise, a photo of the two of them. A Polaroid, to be completely accurate, taken five years ago at the Café Brasilia and that he had kept, for some reason, waiting for…something. For this, she supposed.

"Oh. Bobby." She was whispering. "You kept it."

He nodded. She stared at it.

"God. I look so _young_."

"You _were_ young."

She laughed. "Thank you. I think."

"I mean, not that you aren't young…now. Still. I mean—"

"Bobby."

"Yes?"

"Be quiet."

"All right." He sighed.

"Thank you," she said. "This is—" This is what, exactly? She didn't know. It was sweet and sweetly surprising. She felt herself beginning to cry and blinked hard. "Thank you. It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful, Eames. And you're welcome. More coffee?"

She blinked. "Uh…yes. Please." She held out her mug and her hand was trembling, but then, she noticed, so was his.

He wanted to kiss her then and have it not end with just a kiss. He remembered the mistletoe and her red cheeks and her soft little mouth.

"It's Christmas," she said suddenly, realizing.

"Yes."

"Oh," she said, holding the photo tighter.

"And here we are—" he said quietly, and thought, _There's nowhere else I'd rather be_. He didn't say that out loud, though, because he knew she didn't feel the same.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," she said just as quietly.

She leaned across the seat then, pressed her cold cheek hard against his. She could feel his warm breath blow across her cold cheek into her hair. She closed her eyes and wondered why things had to change, to end, things like this, _this exact moment_. He sighed. He could just die of joy, really, and what a way to go.

"Merry Christmas, Bobby."

"Merry Christmas, Alex."

Outside the frosted window December snow fell.

It was still snowing and Christmas was here.

//

_Fin_


End file.
